


For a Valiant Heart

by ophiion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I guess one could consider this a slow burn, Mutual Pining, Side Drarry, Slow Burn, side hermione/ginny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-07-15 17:06:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16067513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophiion/pseuds/ophiion
Summary: ❝ congratulations,you solved the whole case on your own,you deserve a medal of recognitionfor your brilliance in the field.i applaud your courage, strength and capability.can we have a standing ovation for weasley? ❞❝ shut the fuck up, parkinson. ❞





	1. Everyone Sees Noon at their Doorstep

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first real post in a long time and was inspired, mainly, by my personal love of a Slytherin/Gryffindor pair honestly. While this piece is meant to be quite casual and relaxed, I'm going to do my best to update at least every other week. <3 So please enjoy.

Paris was beautiful in the Autumn; the place was alive with culture and languages and the heartbeat of the city thrummed in every step that Ronald Weasley took as he made his way towards the entrance to the French Ministry of Magic. He had leapt at the opportunity for an international Auror mission, it not only gave him time to himself but an opportunity to prove his worth beyond being friends with Wizarding Britain’s golden boy. He loved Harry dearly but the feeling of being eclipsed by him had never lifted quite the way Ron had hoped. And, now that the-boy-who-lived had brought Draco into the fray it had made things considerably tenser in his neck of the woods than he was entirely comfortable with. So, a well-paid trip to Paris could not have landed on his desk at a more convenient time.

However, the fact that he was there to assist in disrupting an international crime ring was far from forgotten. They knew the criminal was a registered British Wizard who was trading illegal, rare and counterfeit magical items under the table. It had come to a head after a murder in Paris and multiple disappearances suggested that what had looked like individual issues had the same source, thus the need for international intervention had become more pressing. The form had slipped across Ron’s desk and he’d applied rather impulsively.

The Ministry building was calm this early in the morning, people wandered around and chatted. There was a level of relaxed comfort in the chilled halls and marble floors, Ron wouldn’t have said he had an eye for architecture, but the atmosphere of the building was elevated with high ceilings and elaborate design. He had already been there three days but the feeling of walking through the beautifully lit halls of this place was not lost on him, it was almost thrilling. It was less domineering than the British ministry, not so dark and far brighter. He decided thoughtfully, as he turned into the elevator for his department, that he could become quite used to it.

His arrival was met with casual greetings, the international office had plenty of space and, as he wove his way through desks towards the break room, it was not lost on him how stress free his time here had been so far. Though he had been informed that today he would meet the newest member of his team; as far as he knew they were another British registered magic user who was from his dad’s department. He’d at least been assured that the individual was a competent investigative recruit who spent much of their time in the field.

The break room was empty save for a witch who was settled in the far corner of the room, her face obscured by a book and Ron took little notice of her as he began to sort himself out with a cup of coffee. After milk and six tea spoons of sugar he felt as though he was being watched and turning he caught the eye of the woman across the room. A sliver of recognition bloomed in his stomach as he scanned her face; she’d had shorter hair when he’d last seen her, but her pug nose and distinct, cold grey eyes made him uncomfortable. Pansy Parkinson was, apparently, still kicking and she did not look pleased to see him.

“Weasley.” She stated, curtly, grey eyes raking over him. She was sizing him up, he realised, after a moment and he felt his nose wrinkle in distaste.

“Parkinson.” The greeting was almost venomous, it amazed him how much another human could make his skin crawl but there she was. Sitting all pious and snotty, lips pursed, and sour faced. “My dad had said they were sending someone from his department, but I didn’t know it was _you_.” He clenched his teeth. If he had known he would have avoided the whole mission entirely. Recently he and Parkinson had been forced to come to some sort of truce; one of his friends was shacking up with hers after all and while he didn’t have to like her, for Harry’s sake, he was willing to be civil. And as far as their friends knew, she’d stopped aggravating him and he’d stopped twisting her words. Though that didn’t stop the snide remarks and hushed insults when they were out of ear shot or left unsupervised. Ron, after all, had never claimed to be an angel and Parkinson could have used knocking down a few pegs.

“Draco mentioned you were coming.” She said with a nod, slowly placing her book down onto her knee, “Your father had also informed me when I applied.” Her eyes were watching him carefully and he seen her lips twitch upwards slightly. Pansy Parkinson was not _unattractive_ , she was rather delicate looking and much less… dog like than he remembered.

“I’ve seen some of the evidence they’ve provided us, there was an enchanted item modelled after a Boîte de sept mers,” Her voice cut through him sharply, it was husky. He lifted his eyes to meet hers, “Well, a very accurate recreation of one anyway.” Ron nodded in response. Clearly, he had avoided every possible avenue of working with her, but his father had always said she knew what she was doing. As far as Ron was aware Pansy was some sort of expert on magical items and spent a lot of time analysing what they did and did not do, her knowledge in the field was “vast” and apparently, she had been commended more than once for her work. Though, just because the ministry was willing to drop to their knees in front of her did not mean he was about to accept any of her spiteful bullshit. “Not that you would know the difference.” The sharp dig made him snap his head up to look her dead in the eye.

“And how did you know the difference, Parkinson? Enlighten me.” He snarled, nostrils flaring as he watched her. There was something in those grey eyes that read too close to amusement for him to feel even vaguely comfortable.

“Well for one, enchanted containers such as this one, are hard to come by which would immediately indicate forgery however, while this one is a recreation it has been enchanted with expert skill,” She seemed very certain and he was surprised that he believed her, “Secondly, the overall design of the puzzle lock was inaccurate, only slightly and an inexperienced buyer wouldn’t know the difference. But of course, I am not an inexperienced buyer.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, and he found himself irritated that she placed her opinion on such a high level, “Plus it was made from dyed ash rather than the more traditional tulip wood.” She met his eye with a careful smirk, as though somehow her knowledge had bested him, and his stomach coiled. Was it possible for him to work with her? Probably not. Could he turn back now? And face the embarrassment? _Fuck no_. He tightened his jaw.

“Well isn’t that just _wonderful_ to know.” Ron felt his brow furrow, he didn’t give fuck about what she thought or about what she did or really who the fuck she thought she was. Parkinson had always been nasty and rude; she might have manipulated Harry into believing she was a “good” person but Ron had never been easily swayed.

“Of course, it is, it’s the murder weapon you idiot,” She sniped back at him, her arms folding across her chest tightly, “The victim was drowned to death, in the middle of the street, in broad daylight. In a place nowhere near a body of water therefore it had to come from that box.”

“You don’t know that, they could have moved the body.” Pansy rolled her eyes and stood up suddenly, carefully straightened black hair swishing around her face momentarily. He realised she was looking down her nose at him.

“You and I both know that placing the body in the middle of the street, in broad daylight is ridiculous. Muggle emergency services were called, there was a serious breach of magical protocol- “

“I am quite aware it was a breach of protocol, I’m the _auror_ here.” Ron cut across her, he loved winding her up and she was just so easily angered that he couldn’t help but feel a degree of satisfaction when her cheeks flushed, and she shut her mouth.

“You’re impossible.” She sniped, arms folding across her chest and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Impossible maybe, but I’m still more qualified to judge what the murder weapon is and isn’t.” He reminded her soundly, he relished in watching her let out a disgruntled noise. It was indignant, it was childish, and he couldn’t help himself from smiling smugly upwards at her.

“Well, congratulations, you solved the whole case on your own, you deserve a medal of recognition for your brilliance in the field. I applaud your courage, strength and capability. Can we have a standing ovation for Weasley?” Her tone was mocking, silver eyes fearless when they met his.

“Shut the fuck up, Parkinson.”

“How about…,” She paused for a moment, to hum before spitting out, “No.” With that she stormed out past him, hips swinging as she stalked out of the room with more purpose than he’d ever seen someone move, shitty romance novel in hand. Ron rolled his eyes and looked down towards the cup, cradled in his hands.

“Good fucking riddance.”

It wasn’t until later he realised his mistake. Head aching and staring down at the page full of information he couldn’t even begin to understand while his specialist agent gave him the coldest shoulder of his life. Frankly, he’d thought the silent treatment from Hermione had been awful, but this was quite frankly on another level. Between passive aggressive sighing and blatant ignoring, Ron reckoned he was seeing the true spectrum of Pansy’s irritation. So, when five rolled around and he was no further through with his staring at the file he swallowed and looked towards her. She was pulling a light jacket on and packing up her bags.

She looked focused, dark hair falling in a curtain down over one side of her face and Ron felt an uncomfortable surge in his stomach. She was, by and large, one of the most difficult people he’d ever had to deal with even neglecting the fact that she’d treated him like shit in school but, he did have to work with her and if another day went by with him doing absolutely nothing he felt like he’d go mad.

“Hey Parkinson!” He called out and she looked up, instinctively at the sound of her name and rolled her eyes when he tried to speak, “You can’t ignore me forever.”

“I can sure as hell try.” She sniped back, aggressively shoving her things into what was, possibly, the biggest handbag Ron Weasley had ever seen.

“You wanna get drinks?” She stopped at that, pausing carefully as she met his gaze again.

“Why are you inviting me out for drinks?”

“I… Don’t know, I guess I just want to be civil with you.” She snorted with laughter at that, throwing her hair back across her shoulder and crossing her arms.

“You know what, sure, fucking fine. Owl me the details and I’ll meet you there.” With that she flounced from the office, leaving the smell of jasmine trailing behind her and Ron watched quietly as she left, perhaps figuring out Parkinson was going to be a tad more difficult than first expected.

-

The letter arrived at, what was quite frankly, the most inconvenient time. It was around seven in the evening and she had just been preparing to run a bath that she would then proceed to soak in for hours when the creature had arrived on her windowsill while she half in a state of undress. Its persistence made clear, she opened the window to let it drop off its letter. She gave her feathered postman a fond scratch on the top of its head before allowing it to rest on her desk.

She didn’t recognise the handwriting, but it came in a plain brown envelop and it was indeed addressed to her. She opened it with caution, she had always done so for fear of being subjected to some horrible prank and was surprised to find that the scrawly, scratchy handwriting belonged to one Auror Weasley. She rolled her eyes a little, but the letter was pleasant, it filled her in on important case notes and quite strangely invited her out for drinks with himself under the guise that he felt he should be civil and because she had asked he give her the address of whatever hovel he wanted to drink at. She was surprised that he not only knew the address she had been staying at but had, somewhat politely, met her request. He had suggested she could come to the “Le coeur du gryphon” at eight, if she “wanted to, of course”. The statement felt strangely like a challenge.

Pansy had always been competitive, never liked authority and hated being told what to think. So, she supposed, that she’d never been cut out to appreciate the way that Gryffindors and their families could be so pious about being so “good”. She felt, vaguely, as though it had never occurred to them that there were multiple sides to stories and that sometimes things are done not for any reason other than survival. And Pansy had always made sure she would survive. Perhaps it was what made her so scrappy, so angry… There was a degree of her that felt constantly as though she needed to prove people wrong.

Decision made, Pansy didn’t bother to write a response she decided she would simply show up. All the better to surprise him with her presence and of course. He’d been gruff with her, part of her wondered was there an outside influence in him inviting her along. Part of her mind even wandered to the fact that he might have cared about her being treated less like a spectacle and more like a person. Though the notion seemed quite ridiculous. They had never really seen eye to eye, shooting glares in the library whilst she and Blaise laughed softly behind their hands. He had always been the easiest of three to read, in part because he wore his heart pinned firmly to his sleeve. Pansy preferred to keep hers hidden, it made it easier to detach from people that way.

It took her less time than expected to get ready, her hair sat in light waves and her makeup was, as always, quite flawless. It hid a smattering of rather ugly freckles on her nose rather well. Her clothing was pleasant, silver and black. Colours that stood out against her skin and made her feel quite beautiful. The dress was black, velvet and not too formal. It showed just enough. It was just right on her. Pansy had always taken pride in looking good. Though it did not seem to be settling the butterflies that had quite suddenly developed in her stomach.

The paranoid part of her had to wonder, was this some sort of ruse? Was he trying to catch her on her own? Honestly, she was rather unsure of herself as she looked towards the clock and with a modicum of horror she realised that Weasley was making her nervous. That she wanted to prove herself to him. Her mother would have had a fit at the idea that she was so shaken.

“You are a Parkinson.” She reminded her reflection in the mirror above the fire place, “You are not allowed to be this scared of some man who knows nothing about you.” The reflection mirrored her nod as she marched towards the front door. Pansy Parkinson would be damned if a Weasley would make her feel any sort of discomfort.

-

She swanned through the door fifteen minutes late with her nose in the air, wearing something that was almost too high class for the place he’d picked to drink and waltzed towards the bar to order as gracefully as she could muster. When the glass of Merlot was placed in front of her, she turned to survey the light scattering of patrons. Pansy caught a glimpse of red hair perched in a booth in the back corner of the bar.

“You’re late.” He observed, looking up at her from his own drink as she slid across from him. She grinned across at him and threw her hair back over her shoulder.

“Beauty takes time.” She spoke, moving to bring her drink to her lips.

“Then you need centuries.” He jabbed at her and she felt her hand tighten around the wine glass, she wondered if she gripped it tight enough if it would shatter in her hands.

“And you need aeons.” She sniped back, she watched the smug smile on his face disappear and sour. Satisfied she’d gotten under his skin she set her glass down on the table and delicately crossed one leg over the other. “So, Ronald, what made you decide you had to be civil with me?”

The question seemed to give him pause as he sat back from the table, blue eyes rising to look at the space above her head. It gave her a chance to look at his face in more detail, freckled and kind she had to admit he was easy to look at. Angular, masculine but in a very different way to the other men she’d known in her life. His cheeks were flushed and healthy, there were certainly bags under his eyes and the ghost of a scar on his upper lip. Pansy imagined in a different life she might have been attracted to him, but this was not a different life and he was a humongous arsehole. She sighed and found that his eyes were looking into her own again, she felt a light flush creep across her cheeks and she wondered if he’d noticed she was staring.

“I mean, listen, I don’t think we have to be friends,” He began, and she nodded in agreement, friends they would never be, “But we have to at least work together and… like… I know one thing about you.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you’re a major dick head.” Pansy scoffed and lifted her drink again, this was clearly going to be a difficult evening.

“And do you think you’re much better Mr. Weasley?”

“I think I didn’t try to hand over a hero to old snake head.” Pansy snorted indignantly, who was he to judge her? He would have thrown her to the enemy given half the chance and they both knew that. She clenched her jaw carefully as she tried to think of a response. Clearly they were diving into this conversation at the deep end.

“I was seventeen-”

“That isn’t an excuse.” He cut her off and her stomached roiled.

“Stop talking over me,” She snarled, “And let me finish. I was seventeen and you would have fed me to the wolves as quickly as I would have fed you to the wolves. We were all children forced to fight in a war that was too big a burden for any of us to bear so before you get onto your high horse and lord my past over me how about we discuss the fact that none of you were any kinder to us?”

“We weren’t blood purist.”

“Are you forgetting all the families who defected from your side to ours? Just because nobody talks about them doesn’t mean it didn’t happen and frankly, I resent the fact that you make assumptions about my character based on two things you think you might know about me.” She sniffed, nose in the air, “I was cleared of my crimes, I never did anything.”

“I don’t know how you swung that one.”

“It was your dad who was witness to my interrogation and memory extraction, ask him.” Her arms crossed over her chest, Pansy could feel her blood boiling as Ron’s eyes snapped to meet her own.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I said Weasley.” Pansy crossed her arms, body stiff and eyes drilling into his and Ron simply fell silent. He looked down at the table and then out the other patrons of the bar, some of whom seemed to be very drunk.

Pansy turned her head away from to stare at the wall, the silence was uncomfortable, but the tension eased slowly as her breathing righted itself. She hadn’t realised her blood had run quite so hot in her veins until her warm hand landed on the cool wood of the table.

“Why’d my dad see your memories?”

“They wanted biased witnesses to things I’d done.”

“And?”

“Your dad wouldn’t give them the testimony they wanted.”

“Why would they want biased witnesses?”

“To make an example of me, Weasley.” She responded, eyes turning to meet his, “It’s easy to make an example out of someone who’s accounts are frozen and who has no influential family left. They were never going to throw the book at Draco but the rest of us? Well, we’d be easy pickings. Plus, I’d essentially denounced my neutrality when I screamed at Harry Potter across the Great Hall but apparently your dad seen something in me that changed his mind.”

“What was that?”

“Why should I know? Perhaps your dad is very soft, or perhaps he just didn’t see me as disgusting criminal.”

“What were you then?” Pansy paused, chewing the inside of her cheek momentarily before opening her mouth again.

“Scared.”


	2. Little by little, the bird makes its nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me five months to write this lol

The rest of the evening was a blur, a muddle of more wine and conversation that seemed to have no end and no real beginning. Pansy had, with a degree of concern, pointed out that it was late and really, they ought to get back to their respective hotels. Ron had agreed after a moment but insisted he would walk her back to her hotel, lest she be alone in a strange city by herself. His eyes had flashed across her in a way that made her burn with something she couldn’t quite place. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen that colour of blue before in her life.

Pride prevailing, she had grinned wickedly at him and asked what made him so interested in knowing where her bed for the evening was. Ron’s ears had turned red and that began a long conversation about his chivalrous deeds, which transformed into chatting about is previous cases. It was, she supposed, somewhat pleasant. That word associated with a Weasley made her skin crawl slightly, but she didn’t mind his company, especially not when she was slightly drunk. Even his stupid jokes were tolerable.

“You know,” He’d started as they’d neared the entrance to her hotel, “You’re not as big a dick head as I thought you were.” She’d thrown back her head with a choke of laughter.

“I think you’re just as big a dick head as I thought you were.” His laughter was warm, he waited until she was through the revolving door of her five-star hotel before he left. _Gryffindors_ , she had thought, _Hearts pinned to their sleeves._

The watery morning sunlight filtered through the pale white curtains and into her room the next morning and Pansy rolled lazily over onto her side, it was mid-September and soon it would be dark in the mornings. It was a Saturday and she was up earlier than she’d expected, fingers reaching out to find the small vial of potion she had placed on her bedside before collapsing onto the soft mattress and laundered sheets of her hotel room. The location of the place she was staying was planted firmly in the wizarding quarter of the city, large and sprawling and hugely ostentatious. Just as she liked it to be.

Then she heard it, the voice calling her from the fireplace. Crackling and calling her surname, was Ronald Weasley’s voice and likely coming from his head poking through the flames. Desperate to silence it she considered hurling the vial in her hand across the room in the general direction of the fire but instead, she sat up. Hair sticking up a little oddly in places and her night gown rumpled.

“This had better be good.” She sniped from across the room at the floating head.

“We have work to do.” He announced, matter-of-factly and Pansy groaned, throwing herself back into down feather pillows. Eyes staring up towards the ceiling.

“It is a Saturday.” Pansy said in a similar tone before dragging herself back up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. Fingers moving to grab her robe and pull it around her as she approached the fire place carefully.

“Overtime is a wonderful thing, I’ll see you at half ten.”  Pansy didn’t look at the green flames as they whooshed away. Leaving the fireplace smoking lightly as she turned to survey herself in the long mirror that stood proudly in her room. She wondered, quietly, what one wore to do auror investigations. The uniform didn’t apply to her she supposed but she had best impress him all the same.

 _You had better not do any such thing_ , her own mind chided her. Reminding her that impressing Ronald Weasley was quite frankly at the bottom of her list of concerns. Ridiculous notions firmly quelled, she spun on her heel to begin the arduous task of dressing.

-

When Pansy descended upon the French Ministry, she realised that she had arrived rather early. Her preoccupation with how lovely her shoes looked was interrupted when one Ronald Weasley stepped out to meet her and, dressed in his Auror robes, they looked perfectly opposite. Pansy’s clothing was comfortable, flowing versus his own which was rather rigid. He looked out of place even if he did fill them comfortably. He certainly looked the part of an Auror but she wondered, distantly of course, why he’d become one. He’d always seemed like he should be doing something much more interesting than law enforcement. Perhaps it was the danger; perhaps it was a genuine interest in the greater good. Perhaps it was because he felt that if he did not do what was expected of him that he would disappoint those around him. She _knew_ that feeling.

“You’re earlier than I expected you.” He didn’t greet her, just stated his observation and Pansy rolled her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. _A defensive measure_ , her mind rattled at her.

“I can be early.” She stated, a little indignantly. She met his eye and found herself pressing her lips into a tight line. Her irritation must have been clear because he appeared amused, it made her blood boil and she felt the tips of her ears burning.

He said nothing else just began walking and she moved to keep up with him, his strides were deliberate and slow, his walk was somewhere between dawdling and a stroll. Pansy had always walked quickly; she’d had to keep up with Draco at school who had walked everywhere exceedingly fast and with all the pomp and circumstance that teenage boys tend to have.  Well, teenage boys like Draco. _Though that was a complicated thing_ , she thought, _he had to always be something he wasn’t._

“… Mr. Ravenslock had been a customer of the suspect; he was a collector of magical items.” The sound of her partner’s voice invaded her thoughts and Pansy’s eyes lifted from staring directly ahead of her to look towards him.

“I know the name.” She stated simply, Lionel Ravenslock had been a collector of sorts, though Pansy had always viewed the name is association with selling his pieces on. He was a trader and collector, some of his pieces had fallen into Ministry hands when he had relocated, and he felt it was in the best interests of the public to donate some of his more dangerous goods into experienced hands. They had been moved to the archives, one piece of which was a wooden sceptre with the innate power to remove the life from plants. She remembered the ebony handle and beautifully decorative nature of the thing. It had struck her as a thing of beauty and Pansy liked beautiful things, had she not known its true use she would have presumed it was simply a very lovely piece of artwork. As many Magical Artefacts tended to look.

“How so?” He queried, eyes turning down towards her and Pansy rolled her shoulders in a lazy shrug.

“He was a trader. Relocated to France some time ago and donated some of his possessions to Ministry archives.”

“Why?”

“Because Ronald,” She began with a scoff, “Some things are too dangerous to be in the hands of people who don’t know what they’re doing, especially items of the Magical inclination.” She rolled her eyes to complete her point. In her department Aurors were something of a teasing joke, they often presumed they knew everything. In her opinion they often did not. Pansy had more than once refused them access to the artefact archive simply because they did not seem to understand that they had to be accompanied by a member of staff, then and only then would they be allowed to handle the precious collection of confiscated, unknown and highly sensitive items some of which had minds of their own. “He was right to have given them to us, at least we know how to appropriately store and care for them.”

He was quiet for a long moment, eyes turned away from her while they walked to wherever it was, he was leading her. When they stopped (Sooner than expected, she might add) it was outside a rather unassuming town house, the steps up to it appeared marble and there was a twisted, lion doorknocker placed squarely in the middle of the top panel of the door.

“This is where he lived.” Ron said, simply. And Pansy looked toward the shiny black door and the drawn curtains, the house was certainly old, and she could feel the familiar drumbeat of magic as it poured from the walls.

“This is a magical dwelling?” She looked towards him and Ron took the file that had been under his arm out to peruse it.

“Apparently so.”

“Do we have a key?” She asked, there was an edge of excitement to her voice. Her fingers moved to tighten on the strap of the bag thrown over one shoulder and Ron looked down towards her. He seemed to be trying to read her face.

“We do, though, we have to wait for approval from his next of kin _or_   for our warrant to be processed to enter.”

Pansy groaned in response, foot tapping on the ground with a degree of irritation. Ron looked lazily up towards the house, lips twitching in an apparent phantom smile. He seemed to be considering the place, his eyes wandering down the street. “The murder occurred about five minutes from here, down that way.” He jerked his head towards the bottom of the street and Pansy’s eyes followed. As she’d suspected and had been told, there was no body of water nearby.

“Are you suggesting,” She began after a moment, “That they knew where he lived?”

“I mean there’s no sign of physical break in but,” He said, pausing to look down at her, “If I was a magical items trader, my house would have at least one ward.”

“But probably more, most magical dwellings are heavily warded.” Pansy interjected, eyes turning towards the door, “My apartment is heavily warded.” Her eyebrows furrowed, she supposed he was right it didn’t make sense that a magical dwelling would have no wards, no safe guard. Magical items were, as established, expensive and hard to come by. So why wouldn’t a trader and collector take precautions with his precious stock? Pansy had to agree it was suspect.

“Unless he removed them willingly?” Ron suggested, Pansy could tell he’d turned back to look at her. She could feel his eyes on the side of her head, she felt as though she was being scrutinised for an answer.

“Or, perhaps, he removed them forcibly?” She asked, eyes turning to look up at Ron who shrugged in response.

“Either way, we have to wait.” She watched as he shrugged and closed the file, sliding it back under his arm. He looked concentrated, thinking. It rather suited him she thought.

“So... back to the ministry?”

-

The office was warm but not overwhelmingly so; Ron sat comfortably behind his desk, flicking endlessly through case notes. He had shrugged off his coat and jacket when he’d come in. Parkinson had disappeared to make herself tea before curling up at her own desk to study her own folders. He could see her from his desk, eyebrows lightly furrowed as she stared at the words on some sort of form. In a locked case in front of her stood a box, which she had proudly referred to as the murder weapon yesterday. Ron was sceptical, not to say he didn’t trust her skills, but he had to wonder how a puzzle box could drown a man. He had seen cases where counterfeit items had killed people before, had this case not caused an international scandal he doubted he would need to be here.

Eventually he heard the click of a lock and raised his head to look at her, she was opening the case and carefully (While wearing gloves) removing the puzzle box from the case. Curious, Ron swung himself to his feet and wandered across the room. She looked up at him after a moment before her eyes returned to the item in her hands.

“The puzzle lock is easy.” She stated, fingers testing each of the panels, “Well once you know how to solve it.” When one panel slid, she began to move the next one. Ron watched with a degree of fascination, as she spun or rotated the box until, after around twenty minutes there was a click. Her grey eyes lit up at that. He watched her slowly peel open the lid which had previously been on the bottom of the box, the lion’s feet legs on which it proudly stood now having been forced down into the box to activate some mechanism inside.

“Huh…?” She sighed, before moving to pull the glove off her left-hand finger by finger with her teeth. She proceeded to stick it into the box and then… lick it?

“What the fuck are you doing? That could be poisoned!”

“Of course, it won’t be poisoned; you can’t put drops of deadly nightshade into the sea and poison the whole ocean.”

“What?”

“Oh, the box, it’s full of sea water.”

“The box is full of sea water?”

“I mean technically it’s a localised opening into the ocean.” Ron found himself falling silent, his eyebrow raised as he waited for her to continue, “It’s a very difficult enchantment but you can open small… Windows into places, that’s why a genuine Box of the Seven Seas,” She said nodding towards what she was holding in her right hand, “Is difficult to come by, this one is not genuine and a recreation but beautifully enchanted, there is likely some sort of magical focus? Perhaps a crystal or a piece of debris retrieved from this part of the sea but yes.” Lifting the box to her ear she shook it, there was no sound but she seemed satisfied.

Ron was quiet before nodding for a moment, “Could someone manipulate that water?”

“If someone had enough magical prowess and skill, I imagine they could do it though,” Pansy tipped the box upside down suddenly and not a single drop fell out, “The water couldn’t exit the box unless a large degree of sheer magical force was used.”

She moved to place it gently back in the case with her gloved hand and stood back to peel the other one off, it snapped as it left her tiny hand and delicate fingers. _Pianist’s fingers_ , Ron thought suddenly.

“So, what does that mean?”

“Well it means the user would need something more powerful than a basic wand,” She said as though it should have been obvious. “Some sort of focus, or perhaps another style of magic we don’t use? Whichever the case, you’re looking at a powerful wizard.”

Ron nodded slowly and watched as she closed the container and she stretched her shoulders, eyes turning towards the clock which read 13:46. His stomach gave an uncomfortable gurgle and he felt his cheek flush suddenly. Her lip twitched upwards slightly and she turned towards him with a grin for the ages.

“Lunchtime?” She suggested.

“Absolutely.” Ron agreed with a nod as he watched her move to walk towards her desk to lift the satchel, which she’d brought with her. She seemed less intense in Paris than she had at home in London. Though, he realised, he didn’t really know what she was like at home at all. While she was willing to be civil here and had been cordial since the previous evening Ron had come to realise, that he knew so little about her it was astonishing.

Pansy Parkinson had been a bitch at school but didn’t speak much outside of snide remarks with Malfoy. She had spent a lot of time in the library, he’d seen her whip Daphne Greengrass’s arse at chess once and been almost impressed. He knew she’d never really spoken to Hermione prior to meeting her at Malfoy’s apartment but Hermione had always said she could feel the comments she and her friends made behind their hands. His most distinct memory of her was probably everyone’s most distinct memory of her and he wondered, idly, if that was how she liked it. She controlled how people saw her. There was a part of him that understood that, if that was how it was. Easier to manipulate a situation if people don’t know you, easier to fade away. He’d already decided she would be difficult to understand but he wondered if they were more similar than he’d first thought.

“I know a place,” Pansy said, suddenly. She was fixing her bag, so it sat comfortably on her shoulder and gently placing things back where she’d taken them from. “It’s a little upmarket for you, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“You _just_ can’t help yourself, can you?” He asked, suddenly annoyed. A grin, sharper than one he’d ever seen a person wear, bloomed across her face.

“Of course, I can’t! You’re just so easy to wind up!”

Ron sighed, she wasn’t wrong he supposed.

-

The café was small and family run, and Ron couldn’t understand a single word on the menu as he squinted at it. Pansy was watching him, with what he thought was amusement and pity. She pushed her hair back from her eye as the waitress approached and asked what Ron could only assume was in relation to what they were ordering. Before he even had a chance to open his mouth Pansy’s voice cut across his to order for them. He slowly closed his mouth and sat back in his chair.

“Why did you come to Paris if you can’t speak any French?” She asked, after the woman had scratched down their orders and walked away. He looked down to the table and drummed his fingers casually on the glossy wooden surface.

“To escape.”

“What do you have to run from?” She quizzed, head tilting. Pansy was watching him carefully and with a degree of mild curiosity, similar to how a cat looks at humans. “You helped save the modern world, you are a national hero.”

“Not really,” He replied, with a shrug. “That was Harry.”

“Well you must have helped?”

“I was mostly just an arse.” He answered lazily, looking up at her cautiously. Her eyes met his with a degree of quiet understanding, it made him uncomfortable he realised. That there was someone who even remotely understood what he was saying. Most of the others did not. Not to say that they didn’t try but they never really… just got it.

“Yes, you were.” She said, sitting back as the small blonde woman set their respective drinks down on the table in front of them. “But aren’t most people when they’re that age?”

Ron fell quiet and lifted his cup, he’d never really considered how young he’d really been until recently, specifically when his last birthday had rolled around. The magnitude of what he’d experienced and seen and done had only really hit home in the recent years. He never wanted his future children to go through it, not for all the world. They didn’t deserve to be so lost in chaos and confusion, frightened out of their minds that their family would all die. He looked up to Pansy who was looking out of the window at the people passing by.

“Yeah, most people are.” He observed, after too long a silence had passed. Her head turned to look at him with a slow smile, he realised suddenly that she had played the same game he’d played the night before though not so obviously and to a lesser degree. She’d coaxed him into a position of vulnerability the way he’d forced her into one. Pansy rolled her shoulders and leaned towards him, resting her chin on her elbow.

“I think,” She said, “That people’s lives and experiences are all so individual and different that it can be hard to really understand them if you don’t know them.”

“I mean that’s just a fact.”

“And our history builds us all in different ways.” She lifted her cup to her lips and took a drink, her lipstick left a pale mark on the white porcelain as she placed it back down on it’s saucer.

“Who taught you that?” He asked, without thinking.

“My mother.” She answered, looking away from him suddenly, “She was, and still is, the strongest person I have ever met.”

“Mine too.” He said without thinking, she looked back to him with a smile he couldn’t quite place. There was something very guarded about her expression, as though this wasn’t something she spoke about often. He’d only heard, distantly, of Delphine Parkinson and it was almost always in the past tense. When his mother had read in the paper four months that she had died Ron was surprised to find she’d been alive at all.

“Though I suppose there is one thing my Mum didn’t teach me.” She said suddenly.

“And what’s that?”

“Your past shouldn’t define your future.”

“Who taught you that?”

“Myself.”


End file.
